Striker landed with a grunt, and the ladder began to ascend. The crew was on standby, waiting for the signal to send reinforcements.

"What now?" Striker asked.

Nick pointed to the door in the top of the tower. They started forward, their boots scuffing on the stone. Nick could see nothing unusual, but he could feel something there. It wasn't even as literal as eyes watching from the shadows. It was a scent, or a mood, or a taste in the air that was wrong, as ephemeral as the tension in a room after a fight.

Striker reached for the door handle, but hesitated, swore at nothing in particular, and then yanked it open. "I hate this d.a.m.ned place."

Refusing to look afraid, Nick went through the door first. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and he pulled out his chemical light. Striker did the same. But then his eye caught something just as Striker twisted the bra.s.s tube and began the chemical reaction that gave off a thick, greenish glow. "Wait," Nick said urgently. "Turn that off."

Without argument, Striker snapped the shutter closed. Nick squinted, trying to make out what he thought he'd seen in the near darkness. Not much met his searching gaze-just boxes and crates stacked on the wooden floor and a spiral stair leading downward. Even castles, it seemed, needed rooms for miscellaneous storage.

And then he saw it. At first he thought it was a shadow, but it shouldn't have been there. To his eyes, it looked simian-the limbs out of proportion, the head low and jutting, the eyes sunken pits of black. There might have been six limbs, or three, or perhaps more than one head, but the one overriding fact was the menace that rolled off it like smoke. "Black Mother of Basilisks," he swore softly.

"What?" Striker snapped, clearly unhappy. "I'm just an ordinary bloke. I don't see a thing."

"I believe I've found the sorcerer's guard dog." But the moment he said it, he realized there was more than one. He saw them wherever the room was darkest. He watched one move, vanishing as it flowed across a feeble ray of sunlight, only to reappear on the other side. Light didn't hurt them; it cloaked them. "There's a whole pack," he amended.

"Where?"

One sprang at Striker. It thumped into him, baring needle-sharp fangs. The man roared in disgust and alarm, firing the magnetic gun. The blue charge slammed into the thing, exploding it into black droplets that faded before they reached the floor. Athena said to take the magnetic weapons. The electric charge scrambled whatever the things were made of.

That made the others creep backward, pressing themselves to the walls. Nick heard, more in his mind than with his ears, a soft muttering eddy around the room.

"You saw that one?" Nick asked.

Striker was breathing hard, but the gun was steady in his hand. "Just as it was about to bite my face off. What the h.e.l.l was it?"

"Some sort of shadow creatures. I can't see them unless they're in near darkness. I think they have to become solid to attack, which means they're visible for that one instant."

"Did I kill it?"

"I'd say yes."

"That's all I need to know."

They began moving toward the stairs, Nick first and Striker moving backward, the muzzle of his weapon in a constant sweep from side to side. The staircase was a tight spiral only wide enough for one, so Striker was forced to turn sideways to cover their backs as they began their descent. Nick's heart pounded, nerves wound to the breaking point, but the shadow creatures didn't seem willing to risk another attack. They were a third of the way down the stairs when he realized their mistake.

The stairway was made from the same slick black rock as the rest of the tower, the curving stairs slim triangles just wide enough for a man's foot. Oval slits let in gray afternoon light that hung uncertainly in the gloom. It took them a moment to realize that the stairway was filling with a thin mist.

"Nick?" Striker asked in a tight voice as the mist rolled down, engulfing them both.

They kept going another moment, stair by stair, while Nick thought. "They know they're vulnerable when they attack, so they don't want to be caught. We can't fight a mist."

"But then why ...?"

His question was answered before it was finished. In the next heartbeat, the mist divided into individual forms and became solid. The stairwell was full of the creatures, blocking them in from above and below. Shooting them in such close quarters should have been easy, but they were already too close. Nick was pinned, his back pressed against Striker's, his arms too confined to properly take aim. He fired a random shot, but the creatures dodged out of the way. They began to open their misshapen mouths, revealing teeth that belonged to some horror from the ocean deeps.

Nick had brushed against Magnus's sorcery as well as the Black Kingdom and its minions. He knew these were phantoms of dark magic, and their teeth were inches from his face.

Behind him, Striker stumbled, the man's weight lurching against Nick. He pitched forward, barely catching himself against the wall. And then with a cry, Striker slammed into him again, sending his feet skidding off the narrow steps. They were being herded, half by the force of the ma.s.sed spectral bodies, and half by their own terror.

Look into the darkness and refuse to fear what you see.

"Great b.l.o.o.d.y help that is," he snarled, falling to his knees. Pain shot through his legs and hips as bone hit rock. And then he was sliding, cradling the gun as best he could as the slither became a tumble that seemed to go on forever.

Dizzy, he eventually rolled to a stop in a large, open s.p.a.ce. Every bone and joint yowled in pain, promising a nightmare of bruises. Had he lost consciousness? Had he broken anything? Then he felt himself floating upward, and he snapped fully alert.

He was lying supine, suspended above the ground, with a cloud of contorted, melted heads fastening on his flesh, their fish-teeth digging in deep. Pain seared through him as if a thousand needles made of ice were p.r.i.c.king into his flesh. Somewhere else in the room, Striker bellowed with rage.

Nick's reaction was instant. He dug inside for his magic, flailing it wildly into the mob of hungry mouths. It flared, hot and white, scorching the front ranks. The mob recoiled as one, and Nick fell. The stone floor slammed into his spine, leaving him stunned long enough for the mob to regroup. He rolled onto all fours, looking around for his weapon. It was there, a dozen feet away. Nick felt the weight of the mob on his back, crushing him down. He lashed out again, using his air magic as he would the magnetic weapon-light and spark against the dark and cold. They fell back a second time, but not as far as on the first. The nasty beggars were quick to learn.

Nick dove for the weapon, leaping as much as running to outdistance the shadowy, mistlike horde. His hands closed on the gun, praying it still worked after the tumble down the stairs. He was sure the only reason he'd survived was because they wanted him fresh and squirming.

His weapon was dead. With a curse, he switched the thing off and on, and then gave a cry of relief when he heard the telltale hum. The things swooped in, leaving him just enough time to take aim. And then he began firing.

He began with the mob in front of his face, then quickly located his friend. He shot near enough to Striker that the creatures let him go, and winced when he heard the thump and sc.r.a.pe of his body hitting the floor. After that, it was a ma.s.sacre. Black splatters flew into the air, burst after burst. The room had once been a banqueting hall since fallen into ruin. Nick added to the destruction as his shots crashed into the derelict furnishings, but he refused to stop until the last creature was added to the rain of slimy mist slowly settling over the table and floor. He wasn't interested in a repeat visit from the needle-toothed horrors.

When his weapon finally clicked empty, he stopped. Nick trembled with spent adrenaline, his teeth clenched until his skull ached with it. Every object stood out with crystal clarity, as if his senses were overwound. He rose slowly, then crossed the room to where Striker was picking himself up.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Striker cursed, twisting his neck experimentally. "Remind me not to p.i.s.s you off."

Nick's face heated, but he didn't reply as he hauled his friend to his feet. "Now that the opening act is over, maybe we can get down to business."

Striker gave him a bleak look, mirroring Nick's own thoughts. What were the chances that Evelina was alive with those creatures roaming the halls? Nevertheless, they began searching, working up the main tower room by room. While they had technically pa.s.sed that way already, Nick remembered no details from his roll down the stairs. He found his hat, slightly crushed, and Striker's battered old flask, but mostly empty rooms. Only when they had nearly made it back to the top did they begin to see signs of recent habitation. And then they came to three doors. The first was a workroom, filled with old books. The second was an empty bedroom Nick guessed belonged to Magnus since there were a gentleman's dark clothes strewn upon the bed. When they reached the third door, Nick thought he heard a sound. He held up a hand, signaling Striker to wait, and gripped the old iron handle.

When he opened the door, the first thing he saw was Evelina sitting on the edge of the bed. He opened his mouth to cry out, but then he saw more. She was still and silent, giving no sign that she'd heard the firefight right downstairs. There was the state of her clothes, caked in filth. The hunched anguish in her body. The dead thing on the floor.

"Evelina," he said in the soft, careful voice of the sickroom. He had no idea of what had happened, but he could sense her fragility from across the room.

She looked up with the quick, frightened eyes of a captured bird. He'd expected relief-joy even-but what he saw there rocked him backward. She was terrified. Her eyes flicked to the thing on the floor.

"Who?" he asked, thinking the dry husk of a corpse looked like something dragged from an ancient tomb.

"Magnus. He's really, truly dead."

Nick felt Striker behind him and turned.

"You go ahead," said Striker. "I'll keep watch."

With a nod, Nick stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. His mouth went dry for a moment, sensing trouble on a monumental scale. "What happened?"

Evelina looked up at him, her mouth working. "I killed him. I used his own magic against him."

"Good."

Her eyes, always a deep, rich blue, seemed to grow yet darker. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Then tell me."

"He tricked me. He made me ... he made me like him." She looked down at the corpse with fierce loathing. "So I drank his life. Every drop."

Nick blinked, not quite understanding at first, but then putting it together from what she'd said about Magnus and his doll. Horror reared up, throwing him back to the fight downstairs. Except now there was no weapon, no way to blow the evil to smithereens. Helplessness rolled over him, leaving his body weak and aching.

His first instinct was to tell her it would all be fine, that he'd find a way to fix everything-but he knew better. First, there was no way of knowing what could be fixed. Second, she always knew when he lied.

Evelina rose from her position on the bed, her eyes wide in her heart-shaped face. Those eyes filled, star-bright with tears. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'm not who I was."

He gave a slow nod. "I can see that." The darkness was in her, flowed from her like the fire of a dark gemstone. It was beautiful, but dangerous. Whatever was in Magnus is in her now.

There was a corner of him that wanted to recoil, but instead Nick began to approach, circling around the flaking remains of the sorcerer. Another corner of him wanted to philosophize, to list all the reasons she would never be like the thing on the floor, but he kept that babbling voice to himself. Words weren't what either of them needed right now.

"He took off the bracelets," she said suddenly. "That made the hunger worse."

"That makes sense," Nick said with deliberate calm. "All that iron in the manufactory kept my magic from working. We'll get you some new bracelets, if that's what you want."

"Yes. No. I don't think they would be enough anymore. It's too strong." Now they were just a few feet apart. She was breathing hard, reminding him again of a captive bird. "I'm afraid to touch you, Nick."

"I'm not just anybody." He raised one hand, extending it palm out. "You and I have always been together."

"I killed Magnus," she repeated.

"Good," he said again, and kept his hand right where it had been.

He saw her fingers twitch, wanting to respond, but her fear was fighting his invitation. He felt the flutter in his own gut, the sense that his own strength was about to be tested. And then she quickly raised her own hand and pressed her palm to his. Her magic had always been of earth, of the green and growing fields, the rich soil and sun-warmed rocks. Now Nick felt the force of her magic like a bolt, dark and terrifying as an abyss. She was all that she had been, but there was utter darkness, too.

He felt that darkness lick at his power, wondering if he would be good to eat. A fine shiver crawled over his flesh, but he knew how to respond. After all, he'd grown up around lions and tigers and had seen them tamed often enough.

Nick unfurled his magic-not to hurt as he'd done with the shadow creatures, but with the slow, insistent radiance of sun and air. His magic pressed against hers, blazing to a corona of light. There had always been a silver sheen when they touched, but this was a starburst of silver. He heard Evelina catch her breath, every bit as awed as he was by the potency of the wild magic they could call.

"You have something Magnus never had," Nick said, putting all his rea.s.surance into his voice.

She met his eyes, looking just as she had with one foot out of girlhood, testing what it was to be a woman. "What is that?"

Nick gave his best, his most piratical smile. "Me."

London, October 13, 1889.

HILLIARD HOUSE.

11:55 p.m. Sunday.

A FAINT BREATH OF WIND FLUTTERED THE LACE CURTAIN. IT was slight enough that Bancroft, adrift between wakefulness and sleep, wondered if it was just a trick of the gold-washed light from the street outside. Then the clock on the landing bonged. He blinked, and told himself he had better get some rest. It was hard since he had sworn off strong drink. His mind never quite shut down.

The nervous chatter in his brain was worse now than ever, however much he shied away from any thoughts of Tobias or Imogen. The search for his grandson continued, and with it the anxious despair of his family. They'd tried letters, telegrams, and delegations to the Gold King with no effect. He'd vanished, and Jeremy along with him. Bancroft had called on his allies to help, but those he could interest in the plight of a single baby didn't have any more access than he did. And everyone was far more interested in the war.

Skirmishes had broken out between the Gold and Blue forces, but they had yet to progress to full-on battle. Bancroft's guess was that neither side was as ready as they'd imagined. What had begun with a bang had fizzled to a whimper as one side or the other attempted to negotiate. The proposals were utterly insincere overtures-tactics meant to put the other off his guard-but still they dragged on. It was like waiting for a boil to burst.

Bancroft tossed, plumped his pillow, and heaved a sigh as his mind skipped to yet another topic. He'd spent the evening in the offices of the Whitlock Bank-one of the few still standing after the Gold King's attack on the Green territories-transferring funds to Han Lo for the coal. There was plenty of coal in the city now for whatever attacks the rebels planned. Unfortunately, the supplies were in London and most of the rebels were in the south. Han Lo had promised some a.s.sistance-Bancroft wasn't certain how far the Black Kingdom's influence stretched-but the rest Bancroft would have to get through the blockades. He had no idea how-yet. He needed a miracle but he had managed to get the coal, so that meant he hadn't lost his capacity to work wonders.

He closed his eyes and imagined possible rewards for all his care: a ministerial appointment, accolades in the press, maybe a handshake from the future king. He had gambled heavily on the Baskerville affair, risked much and paid more, but dreaming of all he might win took the sting from his efforts.

He had just about sailed into peaceful oblivion, when he heard a light footfall. This time he sat up, the covers falling to his waist. He glanced first at the connecting door to his wife's bedchamber, but it was closed. Then he wondered if it was his youngest daughter up to no good. "Poppy?"

A knife flashed, and the next moment he was pinned against his pillow. Bancroft heaved in a gasp, shrinking into the softness, his skin twitching to get away from the blade. Automatically, his hand shot toward the bedside table where he kept a gun, but the knife dug in.

"Greetings, my lord."

A black outline blotted out the square of light from the window. Bancroft's mind whirred, grasping for facts, but there was little to work with. The only thing that he could determine was that the figure was small.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Remembrance." The word was precisely spoken, but with a curious accent. Chinese, he thought, though more p.r.o.nounced than that of Han Lo. "I had a brother who came to these sh.o.r.es."

Bancroft waited, deciding that the voice sounded female. "How can I help you?"

The knife jerked, making him gasp.

"I do not need your help!"

"Then tell me who you are."

"Hush!"

The blade turned, the point spinning against this flesh. A terrified sound worked its way from his throat. His gaze flickered to his wife's door, praying that she remained asleep.

"Do you know what happened to Mr. Harriman?" said the voice in a whisper like dry, dead leaves.

Harriman, Keating's cousin, had been Bancroft's partner in the forgery scheme-the one that had ended with so many Chinese bodies in the underground rivers. If Bancroft had entertained any doubts, now he was sure he was in trouble. "He died in prison."

"How poorly that describes his fate," the voice mocked.

"I don't know the details. It didn't matter to me."

"It should." The knife turned slowly, snagging in his flesh. "He died one cut at a time. It didn't matter if his keepers locked him away. The knife came each night and took a little bit of him away."

"Good G.o.d!"

"Not good if you were Harriman. Every dawn would find less. An ear, a finger, a toe. Eventually the easy pieces were gone and the rest had to be done in strips."

Bancroft had had enough. He reached up to grab the knife hand, but a hard blow slapped him on the wrist, making his fingers turn to rubber.

"If one is frugal, there is enough flesh on a man to last a year before he dies. But Mr. Harriman did not live through the summer. He stopped sleeping, too afraid to shut his eyes for fear of what he would lose next. A man cannot go on forever like that."